“I knows whut ails dat nigger,” he said to himself, at last. “He’s done gone back to de Hen-Scratch an’ he’s waitin’ fer me to come. I ain’t gwine! Dar ain’t nothin’ mo’ fer me to win but a argumint. I done made dat nigger lose all his money an’ if he gits me shet up in dat saloon, he’ll kill me.”
He walked out of the gate and went straight to the bank, knocking upon the door of the president’s office.
A voice within answered, and Shin turned the knob and entered.
“Marse Tom,” he began, “ain’t you got no job fer a strong, willin’ nigger?”
“Sure,” Colonel Gaitskill said. “But I don’t believe any nigger is willing to work while a free fair is going on out at the race-track.”
“I done got enough fair, Marse Tom,” Shin said solemnly. “I loves hosses, but I ain’t wise to nothin’ about ’em excusin’ how to feed ’em, water ’em, an’ rub ’em down.”
“You wanted me to sell you a race-horse this morning,” Gaitskill reminded him smilingly.
“Yes, suh. But you knowed I didn’t had no money to pay fer no hoss,” Shin grinned. “I wus jes’ talkin’ wid my mouf. But I shore would like to hab a job wuckin’ wid hosses.”
“All right,” Gaitskill agreed. “Go out and potter around my stable. Three dollars a week and feed.”
“Thank ’e, suh. Dat shore suits fine.”